Survival Instinct
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". When Boyd and Grace leave London to evaluate a possible murder suspect, they have no idea what's in store for them... Complete. T-rated for language and violence. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N**: _After leaving it lonely and abandoned for months on end, I finally finished this one! Enjoy!_

* * *

**Survival Instinct**

By Joodiff

* * *

"Keep your head down," is Spencer Jordan's solemn opening gambit as Grace arrives precisely thirty-five minutes late for work. There's a faintly rueful expression on his face, one that's almost identically mirrored by Kat Howard, sitting to his left.

Grace automatically looks past his shoulder towards Boyd's office. The blinds are open and Boyd himself is standing with his back to the CCU's squad room, telephone receiver to his ear. His jacket is over the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. This early in the morning, both are very bad signs indeed. Resting her overly-large bag on Spencer's desk, Grace asks quizzically, "Bear with a sore head?"

Kat grimaces. "And then some. That's some poor sod from the Transport Police he's tearing apart."

Bemused, Grace asks, "For any particular reason?"

"There was a minor misunderstanding. One of their eager young Sergeants thought it would be a really good idea to drag the head of the Cold Case Unit out of bed at five o'clock in the morning to look at a collection of bones found on the Northern Line," Spencer tells her. He pauses and then raises his eyebrows. "Turns out, they belong to an absent-minded veterinary student. Classification: _bos taurus_."

Grace tries, and fails, to keep a straight face. "Cattle bones?"

Kat grins with her. "Got it in one."

"I think it might be time for me to practice my sneaking technique," Grace says wryly. "Thanks for the warning."

She almost makes it, but Boyd – who's been a police officer for a very long time – has a very well-deserved reputation for having eyes in the back of his head, and he wheels round quickly to face her. He carries on speaking and simply points, first at her, then at the chair in front of his desk. Grace makes 'let me just hang my coat up' gestures in return, but Boyd's pointing becomes more staccato, more insistent. It would be far better for all concerned, she decides, to simply humour him rather than to ignore him, so she sighs heavily and slips quietly into his office.

He's in full flow, and she's immediately glad she's not on the other end of the line. Boyd doesn't mince his words at the best of times, and this does not appear to be the best of times. Grace settles herself down and gazes at him serenely as he continues his angry diatribe. She can afford to be more amused than alarmed by just how riled he is – the subject of his considerable ire isn't a member of their own team, isn't someone she has a personal connection to. Plus, Grace knows very well that this is a storm that will very quickly pass. Additionally, although she's aware that she's heavily biased, he's generally quite… impressive… when he's in a towering rage, which is an added incentive to just sit back and enjoy the show. And that's a thought very definitely best kept entirely to herself.

"You're late," he says sharply, as he finally disconnects the call.

"I am," Grace agrees mildly, very well aware of how to disarm him. She doesn't offer an explanation and her placid silence is rewarded with a dark, basilisk stare.

Predictably, however, Boyd's inevitable impatience saves her from any further discussion of her tardiness. She may not always know what he's thinking, but she knows exactly how his mind works, how quickly his thoughts flow and how easily he dismisses things that are singularly unimportant. Settling behind his desk, he says, "Leonard Baxter."

"Loner," Grace says promptly. "Never married, patchy employment history, several minor brushes with the law. History of alcohol and substance abuse, but on a very minor scale. Lives out in the middle of nowhere. Application for a firearms license was turned down by Surrey Police in 'eighty-eight in the wake of the Hungerford massacre. Treated by his GP for minor depression several times, but has never been referred on to the Mental Health Service."

"Someone's done their homework," Boyd says dryly. "So…?"

Grace allows herself a slight shrug. "So, yes, he broadly fits one kind of stereotypical profile – but I'm not at all convinced he's capable of the kind of organised killings we're looking at in the Southwark case."

Boyd runs his fingers through his hair. "Keep it simple for me, Grace, please. I'm too bloody exhausted to cope with anything else. Do I go and put his door in, or do I politely invite him in for a friendly chat?"

"Neither," Grace tells him promptly. "I think someone should visit him at home. Get some context. How is he living? Is he coping with everyday life? What state is his house in? That sort of thing. It will tell us a lot about whether or not he – "

"Okay, okay," Boyd says irritably. "I get the picture. Simple, remember? Words of one syllable, if possible. All right, let's go and see him."

"Now?" Grace asks, slightly surprised.

He stands up. "Why not now? If I stay in here I'm going to be asleep by lunchtime."

"I can tell," Grace says, and she isn't altogether joking. He looks exhausted in a harsh, bone-weary sort of way that goes far deeper than simply a single disturbed night. Deciding not to argue, she stands up, and as she does so she says, "_Bos taurus_ , eh?"

Boyd's reply is suitably pithy. Grace laughs.

-oOo-

South London gradually begins to give way to the suburbs as they continue driving south. They are in a hinterland between the outer fringes of the city and the solid respectability of the commuter belt. A strange sort of no-man's land pockmarked with industrial estates and residential streets that don't really belong to either world. In fact, regardless of official borders, Grace doesn't actually feel as if she is outside London until they have crossed the artificial boundary created by the M25.

"Take the A25 west," she tells him, more out of sheer devilment than anything else. They argue a lot about navigation; always have, always will. Boyd is a man, and he won't ask for directions; Grace is a woman, and she can't read maps. It's clichéd and completely fallacious on both counts. But it amuses them both to maintain the fiction.

It's a nice day, warm and sunny, lacking the uncomfortable heat of high summer. Autumn isn't far away, but the leaves on the trees haven't quite started to turn. It's a good day to be out of London, and Grace wonders whether to persuade him to stop somewhere pleasant for a late lunch after they have visited Baxter. A riverside pub, maybe. The CCU is currently involved with several on-going cases – the Southwark murders included – but they are all fairly routine, the very ordinary work that continues endlessly between more high profile investigations. And they do have to eat at some point. No, it probably won't take much arm-twisting to get Boyd to pull in somewhere on the way back.

Surrey is an odd county in many ways, Grace reflects as she looks out of the car window. Pockets of extreme wealth exist in uneasy harmony with the trailing edges of the much poorer urban sprawl spilling out of London. Acres and acres of suburban streets stretch towards hills and woodlands. There's still a bit of farmland, a few fields of cattle and sheep here and there, but it hasn't been a truly agricultural county for a long, long time. Yet there are still a few remaining areas of tangled wilderness, stretches of uncultivated land that recall much earlier, simpler days, and that's exactly where they are headed.

"Left," Grace tells him as they reach an isolated intersection. There's not much to see except trees, hedges and the fields beyond. To their right, an impressive ridge of tree-studded hills looms in the distance – the North Downs.

Boyd shoots her a look. "You can't possibly know that."

"Female intuition."

Succinctly, "Bollocks."

Deadpan, Grace admits, "It was on that sign back there. Midgate, two miles down on the left."

He ignores her instruction, drives straight ahead. "Christ, how does anyone get _anywhere_ out here? All these damned lanes look the same to me."

A little while and a considerable amount of bickering later… "Admit it, we're lost."

"We are _not_ lost. We're just temporarily mis-located."

"That's not even a real word."

"Just take a look at the sodding map, will you?"

"You know what they say. If you get lost, ask a policeman."

"Hilarious, Grace. Absolutely bloody hilarious."

"I do my best. Are you going to listen to me now? Turn the car round, then take the second right."

Boyd sighs heavily. Grace rolls her eyes towards the heavens. It's a faultless routine, but then, they've worked hard over many years to perfect it.

-oOo-

Leonard Baxter's house really is in the middle of nowhere, Grace thinks. At least, it's deep in the middle of woods and fields and accessed via a long, long, serpentine track that features some impressively deep potholes and a feral strip of tufty grass that runs centrally between prominent tyre tracks. There's nothing much to see apart from the track itself, a bit of sky, and trees. Lots of trees. Big, mature, broad-leafed trees. Boyd's patience, hardly limitless at the best of times, is wearing very thin. Grace can tell simply from the way his knuckles are white as he grips the Audi's steering wheel, and from the speed with which he negotiates the narrow track. Probably, if the car belonged to him and not to the Met, he wouldn't be driving quite so fast, because its suspension certainly doesn't seem to like the irritable abuse it's being mercilessly subjected to.

Somehow, however, they avoid injury and reach the rough clearing where the house stands; Grace definitely detects a certain schoolboy satisfaction in the way Boyd broadsides the car to a halt on the loose stone chippings that appear to mark the limits of Baxter's property. She knows full well that complaining will only encourage him, so she says nothing, simply maintains a dignified silence as she gets out of the car.

The house is small and old, and it is ramshackle. There's a tattered blue tarpaulin over part of the roof and one or two of the upstairs windows are boarded up. There is peeling paint and crumbling mortar, and what might once have been a meagre attempt at a flowerbed is now completely overgrown. Plus, the house is surrounded by a large and eclectic collection of detritus that seems to range from a wrecked, burnt-out car to a collection of rusting oil drums.

Grace exchanges a look with Boyd. He shrugs slightly and says, "All it needs is a bloody great sign – 'Beware of the Serial Killer'."

"Not that you're making assumptions, or anything."

"Tell me this place looks right to you?" Boyd says. He has a point, Grace admits to herself. She watches as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks the display. A growl of displeasure precedes, "No signal. Yours?"

She checks, shakes her head. "No."

"Terrific," he says unenthusiastically, but he squares his shoulders and says, "Shall we see if Mr Baxter is at home?"

There's no answer at either the front or back doors, despite repeated loud knocking, and attempting to peer in through the windows proves largely unproductive – they are very dirty and mainly obscured by tatty and equally dirty net curtains. Grace waits by the front door while Boyd circles the house again. When he returns, he asks, "What do you think?"

"It's more or less what I expected," Grace tells him. "He's a disorganised, solitary individual and everything I've seen so far is very typical of that. Do I think he's our killer? No. No, I really don't think he is."

"Based on…? No, forget I asked."

Grace studies him for moment. He's staring at the house, absently scratching his beard and when the idle, unconscious beard-scratching becomes slow, reflective beard-rubbing, Grace knows he's made a decision. One he undoubtedly suspects she really won't like. Trying not to sound too suspicious, she asks, "What are you going to do?"

He glances at her. "I'll tell you what I'm _not_ going to do, Grace. I'm not going all the way back to get a warrant."

"Boyd – "

He interrupts impatiently. "Look, you may very well be right about him, but if you're wrong…? I'm going to have a hard time justifying wasting so much time coming out here and achieving precisely nothing."

Pointedly, she asks, "So you're just going to kick his door in?"

Boyd raises his eyebrows a fraction. "Did I say that? Besides, when was the last time I kicked anyone's door in? That's what Spence is for."

"So what are you…? Actually, I really don't want to know."

"Just wait there," Boyd instructs. "And if Baxter comes back, start whistling the bloody national anthem or something."

Grace shakes her head slightly, but she turns to keep an eye on the track. There's near-silence for several long minutes, broken only by the soft sound of a breeze stirring the leaves of the trees and the occasional snatch of birdsong. There's no traffic noise, no continuous background hum of human existence. It's all very peaceful. And faintly unsettling. Grace, like Boyd, is an urban creature. She knows exactly where she is with buses, taxis and crowds.

She thinks she hears a muffled bang from the rear of the house, but it seems to be a very, very long time before she hears the quiet, but distinctive sound of locks being turned from the inside. A second or two later the front door opens and Boyd looks out at her. He looks unruffled and faintly smug. In response to her raised eyebrows he says, "Upstairs window must have given way when I accidentally leant on it."

"Do you often go around _accidentally_ leaning on upstairs windows, Boyd?"

"Only when they're conveniently accessible via a flat roof."

Grace smirks despite herself. "I'm impressed."

Wryly, he says, "Don't be. There was a ladder."

Inside the house is predictably dirty and untidy. Leonard Baxter is evidently something of a hoarder, and not too fastidious in his personal habits. Grace checks the kitchen – also very dirty – and discovers that there is fresh food stored in the small, old-fashioned refrigerator. Clearly Baxter is still living in the house. Going back into the main room, she finds Boyd leafing through a stack of magazines piled by the fireplace.

"Gentlemen's literature?" Grace guesses.

"Mm. Of the sort that automatically gets seized at Customs."

Not particularly surprised, she merely says, "Lovely."

"He has DVDs, too. Also of the more exotic kind. But no television and no DVD player."

"Laptop?"

Boyd nods. "I would assume so. No sign of it down here, though. No sign of anything particularly sinister, in fact. Unsavoury, maybe, but not sinister."

"I _told_ you he wasn't our killer," Grace says with just a touch of quiet triumph.

"Well, it looks – "

And then, quite abruptly, everything goes very wrong.

-oOo-

Leonard Baxter is a big man. A touch shorter than Boyd, maybe, but much heavier and more than fifteen years younger. He also moves incredibly quietly, and he's on them virtually before they know he's there. He can only have entered the house through the back door. Grace acts on instinct, pushing herself away from the fierce struggle that develops immediately. There's no warning, no preamble. Baxter is just suddenly there, and he seems to pounce in the same instant. It's quite clear where he assumes the threat lies, because he goes straight for Boyd, knocking him back hard enough to make him stumble, and then immediately closing in.

It isn't a fist-fight – in fact, very few blows are traded – it's more like a wrestling match, and Baxter certainly has the advantage. Boyd is hardly a lightweight, but Baxter is easily the bigger, heftier man. Grace looks round hurriedly, seeking something, anything, which can be used as a weapon. There's remarkably little, but when she glances back at the ferocious struggle taking place in the middle of the room, Boyd seems to have gained a little ground. He may be older, he may not be as physically powerful, but Grace knows from experience that when he's cornered Boyd has all the vicious amorality of an alley cat. He's a city boy, a city copper, and as a young man he went straight from Hendon into a two-year probationary period as a uniformed constable in the East End. Peter Boyd does not fight fair.

When he savagely twists out of Baxter's grip and ducks behind him, Grace is fairly sure things are about to be concluded in short order. It's Baxter who suddenly shouts in pain as a sharp, heavy kick takes him squarely in the back of the knee, dropping him to the floor, and then Boyd has an absolutely textbook arm lock on him. And judging from his expression Boyd is seriously tempted to break the arm he's got forced back into hyperextension.

Feeling her racing heart-rate start to slow, Grace raps out, "Boyd."

It's enough. He glances at her, and instead of forcing the captive arm further back, he puts a foot on Baxter's shoulder, forcing him down ever harder. To his suddenly submissive captive, he growls, "Piss me off and I'll break it. Understand?"

There's a grunt that may or may not be an affirmative. Grace winces as Boyd applies a little more weight to his foot, but she doesn't attempt to stop him. He is, after all, only restraining Baxter, even if he's doing so a little over-zealously. Boyd says, "I'm Detective Superintendent Boyd – Metropolitan Police. This is my colleague Doctor Foley. You have a choice. Either I nick you right here and now for assaulting a police officer, or you behave yourself and answer my questions and we'll take it from there."

Whatever Baxter says is incomprehensible to Grace, but Boyd plainly hears him, because there's suddenly another yelp of pain as even more force is applied to the arm lock. Boyd shakes his head. "I warned you about pissing me off."

Grace takes a step forward, once again says warningly, "Boyd – "

"Not now," he says curtly. "There's a high-vis jacket in the back of the car. Fetch it. Now, Grace. Move."

Later, she thinks, they will have words about this. Up to and including his high-handed attitude. But Boyd's grim expression is enough to force her into movement. Recriminations can wait. What she suddenly comprehends and Baxter obviously hasn't – yet – is that most of Boyd's sharp aggression is deliberate intimidation to disguise the fact that he's not entirely sure he can physically keep his captive down for long. And if Baxter realises that before Boyd can restrain him properly, things could get very bad indeed.

Grace heads out to the car at a trot. She's a little too old and a little too over-dressed for anything much faster. Fortunately, the Audi is unlocked and it only takes her a second to open the boot. The contents are unsurprisingly chaotic – a battered briefcase, a collection of tools and assorted motoring paraphernalia, an overnight bag and yes, a crumpled, bright yellow Metropolitan Police waterproof high-visibility jacket that she's never, ever seen Boyd wear despite the fact that it's in far from pristine condition. Though it undoubtedly belongs to him, given that the silver-embroidered black name badge on the front quite clearly says 'Superintendent Boyd'. She drags the jacket clear of all the assorted bits and pieces trying to tangle in it. It's heavy, and it smells faintly of oil and mildew.

When she returns to the house she's relieved to see that nothing much has changed. Baxter is still down, and Boyd still has him firmly pinioned. No further violence seems to have been offered on either side. Haughtily, Grace says, "Jacket."

"Handcuffs," Boyd replies tersely. "One or other of the inside pockets."

In the CCU, it's a well-known idiosyncrasy of Boyd's, his flat refusal to carry handcuffs – or any other unwieldy item of police equipment – unless he fully expects to require them. Privately, Grace suspects the stubborn eccentricity has a lot to do with vanity and the way he thinks the weight and the bulk will affect the way his elegantly-tailored suits sit. She checks the high-visibility jacket's inner pockets and there, sure enough, are the promised handcuffs. Speedcuffs, in fact; current regulation Metropolitan Police issue.

Grace Foley is not a police officer. She has no direct training in how to manage such a situation. When faced with anything remotely similar she has always relied on intuition, common-sense and the lead of her police colleagues. It is Grace who makes the mistake, but it is almost certainly not her fault that she makes it. Probably, the fault is ultimately Boyd's. Grace simply moves too close in her eagerness to hand over the cuffs, and it's then that Baxter reacts, lashing out hard with one booted foot, catching her just below the knee. It's both pain and surprise that makes her cry out as she starts to tumble, and it's doubtless pure instinct – almost certainly the instinct of a friend, not of a police officer – that makes Boyd involuntarily release his grip on Baxter to catch her arm, preventing her otherwise inevitable heavy fall.

And in response, Baxter moves faster than either of them could possibly anticipate.

-oOo-

If the situation were not so serious, it would certainly be embarrassing in the extreme. But it is serious, very serious, because whether or not Baxter is actually a serial killer, he is both angry and irrational, and he is holding what appears to be a very large and very sharp hunting knife. He waves it threateningly whenever he speaks, and he speaks a lot. Grace suspects he may be having a psychotic episode, and he is definitely in the grip of some kind of mania, the words spilling rapidly out of him in a confused jumble as he darts quickly from one subject to the next. He's abusive and aggressive, obviously extremely unstable. She's seen similar behaviour often enough in the past to understand that the best – and really the only – thing they can do is keep absolutely calm and show no hint of antagonism towards him.

Grace prays, quite literally, that Boyd will fully appreciate just how potentially dangerous the situation is and take his cues from her. So far, he seems to be doing so, but she wonders how much longer he will be able to keep his notorious temper reined in. Every time Baxter moves the knife, Boyd's dark eyes track it. Grace doesn't blame him. Not remotely. He's been understandably edgy around bladed weapons since the unfortunate incident with Reece Dickson, years before. Stabbed twice, Boyd was lucky to survive and even luckier to survive with no permanent damage. But perhaps the latter isn't strictly true, because even if the physical wounds healed long ago, the look on his face tells Grace that the psychological wounds are nowhere near as well-healed. Boyd is watching that knife intently as it flicks back and forth, and he is tense, nervous. And if Baxter picks up on that…

They are seated together on the wooden floor, securely handcuffed to each other, and Baxter is clever enough to have made sure they are locked together through the central struts of the heavy oak table which is pushed into the far corner of the dark, untidy room. They aren't going anywhere in a hurry, either of them.

The leg that Baxter kicked is aching savagely. Grace doesn't imagine for a moment that bones are broken, but she can feel the ever-increasing heat and tightness of considerable swelling beneath her trouser-leg, and she wonders if she could actually walk even if they managed to get away from Baxter. Then, she reasons, it isn't far to the car, and Boyd will certainly support her if she needs it. Hell, she doesn't doubt that he will bodily pick her up and carry her if necessary.

It seems she isn't the only one thinking about the Audi, because Baxter finally demands the keys. She hopes Boyd will simply hand them over quietly, and – thank God – he does exactly that. It offers them some kind of reprieve, because the big man immediately heads outside.

Urgently, Grace says, "Whatever you do, don't provoke him, Boyd. We have to stay absolutely calm."

He doesn't waste time arguing with her, just says, "What have you got in your pockets? Safety-pin? Hair-grip? Anything like that?"

"God, I don't know… Why, are you intending to pick the locks or something?"

She expects a sarcastic reply, but to her surprise Boyd says, "Damned right I am. He's smart, but he's not that smart – these things have a double-lock on them. If you don't engage it, you can snap the bastard things open in about ten seconds flat… assuming you have a hair-grip or anything like it."

Hurriedly, Grace starts to search through her pockets with her free hand. Luck, it seems, is not on their side – she can't find anything that remotely fits his requirements. Frustrated, she says, "What sort of police officer doesn't have a handcuff key… or carry their own handcuffs, come to that…?"

Boyd is rummaging through his own pockets as he retorts, "I'm a DSI not a bloody plod. And I do have a key. On the ring with my car keys. What sort of woman doesn't have a hair-grip or a safety-pin?"

She glares at him beneath the table. "The sort that doesn't expect to end up handcuffed to – "

"Bingo…"

"What?"

Boyd is grinning, even if it's a slightly mad grin. "Paperclip."

"Oh, thank God. Ten seconds?"

"Time me."

Boyd is right. It actually takes him longer to fumble the clip straight and put a u-shaped bend into the end of it using just one hand than it does to spring the cuff around his wrist open. Not many seconds later, the other cuff is off her wrist, too. Again, the quick, faintly mad grin.

"Oh, you're good," Grace tells him. "You're very good."

-oOo-

The moment she puts weight on her injured leg, Grace realises that she isn't going to be walking far. The pain is excruciating, so bad that it almost literally takes her breath away. She looks up at Boyd, and it's plain she doesn't need to tell him just how intense the pain is. She can see the immediate concern in his eyes, see it in the tautness of his expression. He has already retrieved and checked their phones – still no trace of a signal. Not even the operator's logo is showing on either. And it doesn't take them long to discover that Baxter doesn't have a landline.

"This is bad, isn't it?" Grace asks quietly, leaning against the oak table, all her weight on her uninjured leg.

"Not even close," Boyd tells her. "At least he's not a nutter with a gun."

"No, he's a nutter with a knife."

"Terminology, Doctor?"

Grace ignores the gentle barb. "Do you have a plan?"

Peering out of the window, Boyd replies, "My plan is to get us to the car and drive like hell until I get a fucking signal, and the minute I do I'm going to call the wrath of God down on the bastard's miserable head."

"That's a plan I thoroughly approve of," Grace tells him.

"Good," he says. "Can't see any immediate sign of him. Stay here while I take a quick look."

"Boyd – "

He interrupts with a brusque, "Just for once, don't argue, Grace. There's no way I can get you safely to the car and simultaneously fight the bastard off if he's lying in wait out there."

Grudgingly, Grace concedes the point. But as Boyd slips out of the front door, she limps cautiously across to the window. If Baxter pounces, there's nothing she can do, she knows that, but, as the old saying goes, forewarned is forearmed. Boyd is circling, slowly and carefully, and he eventually disappears from sight, heading towards the rear of the semi-derelict house. Unconsciously, Grace's heart rate increases. If Baxter reappears now…

She forces several deep, calming breaths. Over the years she's been involved in several traumatic incidents, and she's both brave enough and wise enough not to panic unnecessarily, but she's also realistic enough to know that if Boyd fails to return she will be in a very bad situation indeed.

_Don't be stupid, Grace,_ she tells herself sternly. _There's no way he'll leave you to fend for yourself against Baxter… not while he's got a single breath left in his body. Damned man may be a difficult, contrary pain in the arse, but he's your friend and he's as loyal as they come…_

Boyd eventually comes back into view, still alert, but perhaps not quite so wary. Grace watches with relief as he heads towards the front door. Seconds later, he's with her and saying, "God knows where he is, but staying holed up in here isn't an option. Can you make it to the car?"

Grace shakes her head. "Not on my own."

His response is irritable. "Look, I'm an old man with a bad back, Grace. And I'm seriously pissed off. Just tell me now if I'm going to end up carrying you."

Despite the gravity of the situation it's too tempting a target for a gentle taunt. She says, "I thought you were a late-middle-aged man with a bad back…?"

"Grace."

Heeding the clear note of warning in his voice, she quickly says, "Give me a hand and I'll manage."

Again, the pain is indescribable. She can literally feel the blood draining from her face as an unwelcome feeling of nausea and faintness starts to creep up on her. Only a few feet away from the house, she says weakly, "Boyd…"

"You can do this," Boyd tells her.

Grace knows that tone. It's deceptively gentle, but it has a lot of steel behind it. It's a tone that alternately bullies and coaxes and always gets its own way eventually. And however much it irks her to be spoken to like a recalcitrant suspect or a very junior officer, she recognises how often it's Boyd's strength and tenacity that forces others to keep going instead of turning quietly away from things that appear too difficult, too hard. And so it is this time; she leans heavily on him, puts as little weight as possible on her injured leg, bites back the pain and concentrates on staring unwaveringly at the car. She's suddenly inordinately glad she didn't bother to lock it after retrieving his police jacket.

But an unwelcome thought occurs, and as they finally reach the Audi she voices it. "Car keys?"

Boyd gives her a quick sideways look. "You know how easy it is to TWOC one of these things?"

Grace leans up against the car and lets a heavy sigh of pain escape before muttering, "I'm beginning to see you in a whole new light, Boyd… breaking and entering, lock-picking and hot-wiring a car all in one day… you have some serious criminal tendencies…"

"So I've been told, but – " Boyd says before breaking off mid-sentence. He stoops down. "Oh, for fuck's sake..."

Dreading the reply, Grace asks, "What?"

Boyd is crouching by the offside front wheel, and he's rubbing fingers and thumb together. He looks up. "Brake fluid. Bastard's cut the pipes."

-oOo-

"He's playing games with us," Grace says.

"Maybe," Boyd replies with a shrug. "Or he's just decided to make a run for it. Either way, we're not hanging around to see what happens next."

"How long before someone comes to find us?"

Boyd glances at his watch. "A few hours, maybe. Spence will put a call through to the local boys eventually."

Cautiously, she asks, "So what do you think we should do…?"

Boyd hefts the car's wheel brace in an absent-minded sort of way. It's the closest thing to a viable weapon available, and his stated intention is already to strike first and ask questions later; Grace has no reason to doubt that he will do just that if Baxter appears. He says, "I think we should follow the track back to the lane. Either we'll get a signal, or we'll be able to wave a car down."

Grace hesitates before admitting, "Boyd, I really don't think I can make it. You go; raise the alarm."

He shakes his head. "Not going to happen, Grace."

Grace sighs. "It makes sense. If he comes back I can – "

Boyd's answer is curt. "Listen to me. Somewhere out here there's an armed man who's seriously unstable – a man who may already have killed three people. We're incommunicado, we're in the middle of fucking nowhere and we've got no transport. We're not staying here like sitting ducks."

For several moments they regard each other in wary silence. There is birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves, and nothing else.

Grace finally says, "All right."

-oOo-

The pain is bad – very bad – but it reaches a plateau that is just about bearable, and fortunately it doesn't get any worse unless she accidentally jars her leg on the uneven ground. Still, Grace can't help feeling that she is being forced to endure some kind of hideous medieval ordeal, despite the solid physical and emotional support Boyd is providing as she limps determinedly onwards. She knows he is biting back his impatience, knows just how frustrated their slow progress along the long, rough track is making him, and she's incredibly grateful that he's keeping his mouth firmly shut. Strained silence is better than bad-tempered growling, even if she knows it's the situation, not her injury and resulting slowness, that's making him angry.

As she concentrates on methodically putting one foot in front of the other, Grace lets her mind wander as an antidote to the deep, grinding pain. Predictably enough, her thoughts turn to the man at her side – as they so often do. It hardly seems possible that they've been working together for the better part of a decade, that they've seen and shared so very much, that they're so close on some levels – and yet that there is still such a palpable, carefully observed distance between them. The irony of the thought almost makes her smile grimly, given their current close physical proximity. Disconcertingly, aside from the relentless, agonising pain in her leg, it's his presence that's providing much of the sensory feedback preoccupying her. The warmth of his body where she's so pulled in so close, so tight against his ribs, the strength and lean muscularity of the strong supporting arm looped around her; the strangely heady combined scent of aftershave and fresh, clean sweat.

He says, "Stop a minute."

It's not clear whether Boyd needs a break or he thinks she does. Either way, Grace is just thankful for the chance to lean heavily against the rough bark of a tree and take all the weight off her injured leg. Boyd is going through his jacket pockets, transferring wallet, warrant card and phone to trouser pockets. She thinks she understands – it's well past midday and the day's still getting hotter. Not brutal high summer heat, true, but hot enough to be making him sweat as he bears so much of her weight. Sure enough, he summarily ditches the pale grey suit jacket, tossing it casually aside and flexing his shoulders. She watches silently as he stretches, grateful for his tenacity – he will get them to safety, of that she has absolutely no doubt. Stubborn to the last, that's Peter Boyd.

He glances at her. "All right? How's the leg?"

"Not good," she concedes, but she's stubborn herself, and she quickly adds, "But I'll make it."

"You should let me take a look, you know."

Grace snorts. "I've seen your idea of first aid, Boyd."

Mock-offended: "I'm qualified."

They're doing what they so often do – easing the high stress of the situation with banter. So easy, so practised, and yet that strange distance between them persists. It bewilders her when she lets herself think about it. Surely it isn't just her who feels the attraction between them? Surely Boyd is not really as completely oblivious to the way she sometimes looks at him as he seems? Or perhaps he genuinely is, and perhaps that's better than the obvious alternative – that he's very much aware, but simply doesn't feel the same way. But if that's the case, why –

"Come on, then," he says, stepping towards her. "Let's get going…"

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," Grace says, and despite how strong she is, she suspects that she's very close to tears. Tears of pain, frustration and of sheer exhaustion. The track still stretches ahead of them, apparently endlessly, and it's just too big a hurdle. She can't take another step. The pain's too bad, the distance left to cover too great. It seems ridiculous that they should be so relatively close to one of the biggest, most vibrant cities in the world, and yet so far from any help. As Boyd checks his phone yet again, she adds, "Just go, will you? Stop being so gallant and just get out of here – you could be at the main road in no time."

"I told you," he says impatiently. "Not going to happen. Not while that fucking psycho's out here somewhere."

"Boyd – "

"Don't waste your breath, Grace."

"I can't walk any further," she snaps at him. "Do you understand? I just can't. My leg's swollen up like a – "

Boyd holds his hand up abruptly, and something about the sharpness of the gesture makes her fall instantly silent. He's not simply irritably cutting her short, Grace realises; no, there's far more to it than that. His expression is wary, and she sees his head turn a fraction in the direction they have just come. Boyd's hearing is very acute – as many an unfortunate junior officer has discovered to their cost – and he evidently thinks he's heard something.

"Baxter…?" Grace mouths at him silently, and isn't surprised when he responds with an almost imperceptible nod.

Cold fear tracks up and down her spine as she realises just how exposed, just how vulnerable they really are. She suddenly feels old, weak and frightened, and it's not a sensation she likes. Not at all. Boyd is suddenly at her side, and very close to her ear he murmurs, "We have to get off the track. Now."

"I can't," she mumbles back, and she really can't – the fire blazing up and down her leg is far too intense. She can barely put her foot on the ground now, let alone take any weight on that leg.

Boyd doesn't waste time arguing with her, simply dips his shoulder, takes hold and heaves. Suddenly she's off the ground and over his shoulder, and it's embarrassing, infuriating and more than a little uncomfortable, but she doesn't have time to protest as he starts into motion, crossing the narrow, overgrown ditch at the edge of the track in a single long stride and pushing forward into the undergrowth. Brambles tear, and twigs pluck at them, but suddenly they're in cool leafy shade and he makes immediately for the lee of a large fallen tree covered in moss and rotting bark. It must be the adrenaline, Grace guesses, because he's suddenly very swift, very sure-footed, his strength and coordination belying his age. He dips his shoulder once again, allowing her to slither free without putting any weight on her screaming leg, grasps her hand firmly and orders, "Get down."

Grace obeys, bracing hard against him as she manages to lower herself into a sitting position behind the great bole. Boyd drops down next to her, and only then does she realise how hard he's breathing, his deep chest heaving visibly beneath his shirt. There's a sheen of sweat on his brow and he looks… worried. Very definitely worried. The wheel brace from the Audi is still grasped in his left hand, and the bone white of his knuckles tells Grace just how tight his grip on the short length of machined steel is.

This isn't like anything she's ever encountered before. So many dangerous situations, and this is the first time she's been quite so viscerally scared. There's nothing to help them – no armed colleagues, no back-up of any kind, there's just the two of them, the wind in the trees… and Baxter. Grace opens her mouth to speak and is instantly waved into maintaining absolute silence as Boyd edges into a better position to see the track through the trees. No doubt about it, she thinks vaguely, his elegant grey suit is ruined, the jacket already abandoned in a hedge further down the track, the trousers now snagged and dirty, covered with leaf-mould. Later, he will be a very unhappy man. Boyd isn't fond of the great outdoors at the best of times.

"Can't see him," he mutters, his voice low.

"Maybe you made a mistake?" Grace suggests hopefully. "Maybe he's nowhere near us."

Boyd shakes his head. "He's close."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

Grace doesn't argue. His instincts are generally extremely good. Preternaturally so. This is not Boyd's natural territory – nor hers – but if he says Baxter is close, then she's perfectly prepared to accept that he's right. Fumbling in her pocket, she finds and checks her phone again – still not even the ghost of a signal. Keeping her voice down, she asks, "So what do we do now?"

Boyd looks at his watch, shakes his head. "No-one will be worrying about us yet."

"Thanks for that comforting thought, Boyd," Grace says tartly.

"Do you want me to lie to you?"

"No… but it wouldn't hurt you to dress the truth up a little."

He flattens himself next to her, back against the fallen trunk. "Three choices."

"Go on," she says, a sense of resignation already taking hold.

"We keep heading for the main road, staying off the track. We stay here and sit it out."

Grace can count. Into the silence, she says quietly, "Or?"

"We turn the tables on the bastard. Turn him into the hunted, not the hunter."

"I can't even _walk_, Boyd," Grace points out. "Let alone go sneaking around the woods…"

"No," he says, dark eyes suddenly very intense. "But I can..."

-oOo-

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she snaps at him – but quietly. In fact, it's entirely possible that this will go down in history as the quietest, most restrained argument they've ever had. "I hate to break this to you, Boyd, but you're far too old to be running around in the woods playing Cowboys and Indians."

"You think I can't take him out?"

"Well, you didn't exactly do a great job back there in the house, did you?"

Boyd glares at her. "That was your bloody fault, not mine."

"Oh, I knew you'd throw that at me sooner or later," Grace says bitterly. "Since when did my job description say that I'm required to assist in the restraint of suspects when necessary?"

"As far as I can make out, your job description says whatever suits you best at any given moment."

"I'm sorry? Are we suddenly back in the playground?"

"If we were," he says, still hunkered down next to her behind the fallen tree, "I'd make damned sure I pulled your pigtails. Hard."

Sometimes their fights end badly in sulking and storming – on either or both sides – but sometimes, like today, they end in wry humour as they grudgingly accept just how childishly they can both behave when they're utterly exasperated with each other. Against her better judgement, Grace smirks at him. "For your information, I never had pigtails. And you know what they say about little boys who pull little girls' pigtails…"

The look he gives her is sly and knowing. "Supposition, Grace. Pure supposition."

It's the kind of moment when she should just give into temptation and kiss him, to hell with the consequences. But it's hard to know exactly how the situation could be more wrong for the taking of such a foolish gamble. Still, there's a look of something in his eyes that definitely makes her pulse quicken for a moment. He's so infuriating, and yet so damned attractive, and one day –

Grace sees his head snap up, sees him freeze as he listens hard, and again, the icy tendrils of fear running up and down her back are very real. She watches him, says nothing as he gestures at her to keep still and silent. Boyd twists, low to the ground, gets his feet under him and then he's up in a crouch, cautiously scanning the area to their right, his hand once again gripping the wheel brace. She can almost feel the adrenaline and the aggression pouring into him, the primal fight-or-flight response triggering at the perceived threat somewhere out there in the trees and the thick undergrowth. Dirty and dishevelled, he doesn't look much like the urbane, city-loving man she works with day in, day out. They are reduced – both of them – to something much more elemental; to primitive creatures with an iron will to survive.

Boyd gestures at her again, a clear message to stay put – not that she's capable of moving far – and then he's loping away towards the trees, hunched over, improvised weapon tight in his hand. It astonishes her how quickly he disappears into the undergrowth – how fast even his pale shirt disappears from her sight. Her pulse is racing, Grace realises, and this time for completely different reasons. Now there are two great predators somewhere out there in the woods, not just one. And she really isn't sure which of them is the more potentially dangerous.

-oOo-

Every minute that ticks remorselessly past only heightens her anxiety. She's afraid for Boyd, afraid for herself, and not knowing what's happening is ruthlessly increasing her sense of isolation and vulnerability. She listens intently, certain she can hear noises that don't belong in the quiet woodland, but the stillness, the near-silence just mock her. She does not belong here, and she starts to fancy that the even trees, the land itself, know it. Grace belongs to the city, to the great metropolis where yes, there is danger, but of a completely different nature. In the city there are people, there is noise, there is bustling hubbub and safety in numbers. London has been her home for so long that –

A figure breaks from the trees. Tall, but not tall enough, and far too stocky. Baxter's baggy grey teeshirt is not just sweat-stained, it is blood-stained, and there's a wildness in his eyes and expression that is utterly terrifying. He sees her in almost the same moment that she sees him, and as instinct causes her to scrabble wildly to get away, he lunges forwards. Grace can't get any purchase on the leafy woodland floor, can't put any weight on her injured leg, and she flails urgently, trying to bodily throw herself out of his path. He's coming straight at her, and she realises with a momentary flash of relief that the blood on his shirt must be his own because there's a deep, bloody gash across his temple, the surrounding flesh already showing dark bruising. Boyd, she assumes – Boyd following through on his threat to strike first and question later. That must be why Baxter's running – he's trying to escape further injury…

…But he's still bearing down on her, broad features twisted into an angry snarl, and Grace abruptly freezes as her gaze settles on the knife he's still wielding, the same knife he had in the house. The knife which is bloody, just like his hands are bloody…

…And then Baxter's on her, his weight and his momentum driving her flat into the ground. The smell of damp earth and leaf-mould fills her nostrils, not altogether unpleasant, but heavy and distinctive. She yells in pain as the savage impact jars her leg, bolts of agony shooting up her spine and crashing mercilessly into the base of her skull. It hurts so damned much, and he's so big, so incredibly powerful. Survival instinct, pure and simple, makes her writhe underneath him, fighting for leverage, fighting for breath, for escape, for life. There's noise and fear and pain and movement, everything blurring into a dizzy maelstrom that makes very little sense. She can feel him, hear him, smell him, can see his wild eyes and the wide blade that slashes down towards her.

Grace jerks sideways with every remaining ounce of strength she has. It's not enough to dislodge Baxter, but maybe it's enough to save her life, because instead of biting down deep into her chest, the knife scorches a searing path across her ribs, slicing cleanly through cloth and skin, but embedding itself not in her flesh, but in the cool, damp earth.

It hurts. It hurts like ice, like fire. Intense, concentrated agony.

Baxter roars, jerks the blade free from the ground and pulls his arm back for another swing at her.

It never lands, the killing blow.

Boyd kicks out, hard, fast and accurate, catching Baxter's wrist and making him yell and curse in pain as the knife flies from his hand, spinning away and disappearing into the thick bed of rotting leaves. He's rearing up, Baxter, injured wrist cradled in his other hand, and that's when Boyd swings the wheel brace at him in a wide, backhanded arc, the splintering crack as it hits the side of Baxter's skull far too audible even in the thunder of confusion and chaos.

And just like that, it's over.

Baxter falls backwards, eyes half-open and glazed, and at the same moment Boyd crashes down onto his knees, the wheel brace dropping at his side. There's blood on his shirt, blood on his hands and streaked across his face like grisly warpaint.

They stare at each other for a moment, Grace and Boyd, both of them too stunned and shocked to say a word, and then Boyd pitches slowly forwards, his head colliding heavily with her elbow on the way down.

The woods are quiet again. Just rustling leaves and that elusive, tranquil hint of birdsong.

-oOo-

Grace comes back to herself slowly, firstly aware of the hot, throbbing agony in her leg, then of the searing pain dancing across her ribcage. She's not sure whether she's recovering from a faint, what's happened or exactly how long she's been in some kind of semi-conscious fugue. There's sunlight above her, coming down through the leaves and branches in fat, glowing shafts, and the bits of the sky she can see are a clear, vibrant blue, almost completely cloudless. She stares up dully, not really yet able to make any sense of her situation. Quite a lot of her hurts, and the bits that don't actively hurt seem to be stiff and shaky. She's too old for this… whatever _this_ might be.

She turns her head slowly, memories filtering back through the dull pain behind her eyes. Boyd is still prone next to her, head turned away, one arm flung out as if he's reaching for something that only he can see. She thinks he's dead. For one terrible, isolated moment in time Grace honestly thinks he's dead. Her stomach knots, her throat constricts, but then she sees the slight, almost imperceptible movement of his ribs. He's still breathing. Thank all the powers, he's still breathing. She tries to sit up, but she's completely unprepared for the agony it causes. She clutches hard at her own ribs, realises her clothing is stiff with dried, congealed blood. Her own blood. Again, her stomach reacts, cold fear bringing a wave of nausea that's difficult to fight down. She feels cold and clammy, and her head threatens to spin. Finding some deep core of strength, Grace fights her own weakness with a tenacity Boyd would be intensely proud of, and eventually she's able to edge up into a sitting position, still holding her ribs tightly.

Baxter is exactly where he fell, legs doubled underneath him, head back, half-open eyes staring sightlessly up at the gaps of blue sky. He's already pale. Maybe he's already cool to the touch – Grace doesn't know or care. Either way, he's definitely dead, half of the side of his skull bloodily caved in like an overripe fruit. She doesn't want to think of the amount of strength and fury required to cause such terrible, fatal damage with a single blow.

She turns her attention to Boyd, reaches towards him tentatively, wincing at the renewed pain the action causes. He, at least, is still warm; the moment she puts a hand on him, Grace can feel the body heat radiating through his shirt. Still warm, still breathing. Unconscious, but alive. How badly hurt he is, she has no idea. Even uninjured she'd struggle to roll him over – out cold, he's a dead weight, and she's a lot smaller and slighter than he is. Not to mention older and physically weaker. Injured, she recognises the absolute futility of even trying.

It strikes her suddenly how very tired she is. It's nice in the dappled shade. Warm, but not too warm. It would be so easy just to curl up against him and go to sleep. Someone will find them eventually. Spencer and Kat, perhaps, or maybe local officers alerted to their disappearance. Yes, someone will come in the end. Until then…

Grace mentally shakes herself. What on earth is she thinking? She's alone in the woods with two men, one already dead, one quite possibly dying. It's just her, there's no-one else. If she can force herself to crawl as far as the track, well maybe then she can manage to crawl all the way to the road itself…

-oOo-

_You can do this,_ Boyd's voice says in her head. _C'mon, Grace, just look at what you've been through in the last eighteen months…_

"Shut up," she mutters. "I can't go any further…"

'_Course you can,_ Boyd-in-her-head tells her, exasperation quite clear. _This is nothing to what you've already achieved. Get going, will you? Just how far away can the damned road be?_

So Grace keeps going, inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot, sometimes hobbling, sometimes crawling, and there's sweat and blood and tears, but she doesn't give in. She can be just as stubborn as Boyd can when it suits her. She thinks he probably secretly admires her for it, too. Sometimes they butt heads and when she expects him to rage he simply laughs, amused by her obstinacy, her fearlessness. He's a very strange man in so many ways.

One day she might actually tell him that against all the odds she thinks he's exactly the right man for her.

He probably won't be half as surprised as she expects.

There's nothing left now but that burning goal ahead of her. Get to the road. Get to the damned road.

A voice says, "Grace?"

"Go away," she mutters wearily. "I'm doing everything I can, isn't that enough?"

"Grace," the voice says again, firmness edged by shock.

It doesn't sound much like Boyd. Doesn't sound anything like Boyd, in fact. Sounds more like…

"Spence," she says, looking up at him. "Spence. The road…"

And then everything gets very confusing indeed.

-oOo-

Crisp white sheets. It's a minor benediction, but a benediction all the same. She's seen far too much of hospitals over the last couple of years, one way or another. Different rooms, different hospitals – same sights, sounds and smells. Even just an overnight stay is far too long as far as Grace is concerned, and it seems that despite her loud protestations she's not even going to get away that lightly. It's Eve who says patiently, "Just relax and make the best of it, Grace. You may very well be in complete remission, but they still need to keep an eye on you for a day or two more to make sure you're okay."

"But there's absolutely nothing wrong with me," Grace complains.

"Can you walk?"

"Well, no, not without help, but – "

"Well, then," Eve says. "Honestly, you're as bad as Boyd. If not worse."

"How is he today?" Grace asks, glad for the opportunity to turn the attention away from her own injuries.

"Complaining almost as much as you are. Maybe we should try to arrange for the two of you to share a room."

Grace can't help rolling her eyes at the thought. "Oh, ha ha. Very funny, Eve."

Eve grins for a moment, then continues soberly, "He's not too bad, all things considered. His blood pressure's still stable, so they're holding back on exploratory surgery. Actually, he looks a hell of a lot better this morning than he did yesterday."

Grace nods, but following the calm reassurance her thoughts have already moved on. She says, "Have they done the PM on Baxter?"

"Scheduled for this afternoon," Eve tells her. "But from what I've heard it's pretty much a formality. Cause of death, massive cranial trauma."

A traitorous chill snaking down her spine, Grace says quietly, "This could be it, Eve. This could really be it."

"For Boyd? Oh, come on, the official investigation can only find that it was self-defence, surely?"

"He hit Baxter hard enough to kill him, Eve – they'll argue he could've just disabled him."

"The state he was in? The state you were both in? Baxter stabbed him three times, Grace. Boyd will get his knuckles rapped – again – and that will be that. You know Surrey Police have found trophies from the Southwark murders hidden away under the floorboards of that creepy old house of his?"

Grace nods. "I heard. So much for my assertion he wasn't our killer."

"What is it you're always telling us? Criminal profiling isn't an exact science?"

"Hmm."

"There's always going to be one who doesn't fit the model," Eve says philosophically. "Grace, all you should be worrying about right now is recovery. How's the side?"

"Sore," Grace grudgingly admits, which is something of an understatement. The long gash isn't deep, but it's extraordinarily painful, and the butterfly stitches stuck along its length pull unpleasantly every time she moves. Even attempting to hold a book or a magazine hurts. As for her leg… She sighs and adds, "I think I'm just a little too old for this kind of thing."

"Rubbish," Eve says cheerfully. "You'll get a mention in despatches for this, you know. He's very proud of you."

Grace blinks. "He is?"

"Of course he is… For God's sake, Grace, when Spence and Kat found you, you were just twenty yards from the road. None of us have any idea how you managed it, the state you were in."

Bemused and a little embarrassed, Grace shrugs. "I just…"

Eve regards her intently, says, "You probably saved his life, you do realise that? You told them exactly where to find him."

"I did? I don't remember."

"You did," the other woman confirms. "And when they got there he was pretty much on his last legs. If they'd had to start a full search for him, even with dogs… Well, let's just say he owes you."

Grace shakes her head slowly. "It's not like that."

Eve snorts softly. "Oh, I think it is."

"_He_ saved _me_, Eve. Baxter had me, and there was nothing I could do about it. He would've killed me if Boyd hadn't somehow managed to follow him."

"So you're both heroes," Eve says, just a little dryly. "Maybe the pair of you could try to remember that next time you're tearing chunks out of each other over something completely ridiculous…?"

-oOo-

"I just had a very depressing vision of the future," Boyd says, his tone gloomy.

Grace looks sideways at him. "Is that the one where we're old and grey and sitting in a dayroom together in matching wheelchairs?"

"How did you guess?"

Grace chuckles and doesn't bother replying. They are sitting in the bleak hospital dayroom, the ancient television mounted on the wall pointedly muted, but only he's still in a wheelchair – she has gleefully progressed to crutches. But she understands perfectly.

He says, "Let's go to the coast."

"Convalescence?"

"Absolutely."

"No."

Boyd looks momentarily startled and just a little offended. "Why not?"

Grace smiles sweetly at him. "Because I know what will happen – you'll happily convalesce while I wear myself out running round looking after you."

"Oh, you wound me, Grace. You really do."

"I know you."

"A little too well, it seems," Boyd growls sulkily, but there's no real animosity behind the words.

Dust motes sparkle in the sunlight streaming in through the big windows. They are alone in the room, and the silence that creeps in is comfortable. Beyond the firmly closed door there is background noise, but it doesn't bother them. On the television screen a young and very blonde woman is gesturing at an array of beauty products spread out on a table before her. Ordinary. Banal.

Boyd says, "She was right after all."

Grace frowns. "What? Who?"

"Linda Cummings. She was right about me."

"Don't do this," Grace warns, instantly wary. "We were both there; we both know what happened. Baxter – "

Boyd makes an impatient, dismissive gesture. "I killed him, Grace."

She nods slowly, trying to decide what to say. "I know. But there were… mitigating circumstances."

He laughs, a short, disparaging bark. "And just how many times have we heard killers try to claim that over the years?"

"Let it go," she tells him wearily. "Who can really say what they would do in a situation like that? Did you intend to kill him?"

"I don't know. I really don't know. I don't remember thinking about it."

She gazes at him steadily, well aware of the heavy sense of guilt threatening to settle on him. "What you did was… instinctive. Survival instinct, in fact. For heaven's sake, he'd attacked us both – it was an extreme situation. He needed stopping and you stopped him. Do I believe you would ever _choose_ to kill someone? No."

"I don't think – "

"Boyd," she interrupts. "Peter. Let the investigation and the inquiry decide, hmm?"

He grunts, turns his head to stare out of the window. A long, long time later, he says, "Sometimes I wonder just how much longer I can do this job."

That surprises her. "Oh, you've got a good few years left in you yet."

"You think?"

"God, you really are morose today, aren't you?"

"Come to the coast with me," he says abruptly, looking round at her again. "I mean it, Grace. As soon as we're out of here, let's both just get the hell out of London for a few days."

Grace frowns, searching his expression for clues and finding none. She wonders what he's saying, what he's really saying. Finds that it doesn't matter. She shrugs. "All right."

The silence filters gently back again. On the television screen the blonde woman is now talking to a young man with multiple facial piercings and short spikey black hair. He looks vacuous, disinterested. Life goes on. Whatever happens in the world, somehow, somewhere, life goes on.

_- the end -_


End file.
